A Slice of Life
by SwiftSnowmane
Summary: Beth Greene's not gonna be just another dead girl. Not if the Piemaker can help it. But there ain't nothing out there worth saving that don't come without a price. A Pushing Daisies AU.


**A/N:** Originally published on Ao3, and by request now sharing here as well. :)

* * *

"You can't just touch someone's life and just be done with it."  
- _Pushing Daisies_

…

She's sitting behind the counter when he comes out from the kitchen to check on her, studying her hands with fascination. Carefully, she examines the surface of her pale skin, each crack, each line, like she's never noticed any of it before.

Daryl halts in his tracks in the doorway, hovering there just for a moment. He's carrying a tray of his best strawberry pies, fresh out of the oven, filled with plump, red berries he'd restored to their full ripeness. Still more than a little awestruck, he just stands there for a moment, soaking in the sight of her. Beth Greene, moving, breathing. _Alive_.

The facts were these: the Piemaker's loveliest employee had been gone for a week. He'd given her some time off, but instead of heading far away from the city to some sunny, beachside resort like most beautiful young women her age seemed wont to do, Beth Greene had instead insisted on spending her vacation hours volunteering at a children's hospital, just up the road. The terminal ward. A charity, she'd told him excitedly, raising funds for a cure for some rare disease.

It had been her last day. Too eager to wait for her return, he'd planned to surprise her. He'd been about to remove his apron, don his leather jacket, and head out the door, when he'd heard it on the little portable radio he kept in the shop kitchen. Some disgruntled ex-cop with a hate-filled heart and a grudge against the world had opened fire somewhere downtown. _Seven dead,_ the chipper news lady had tittered. _Dozens wounded. Most believed to be children…_

The Piemaker had never run so fast in all the years of his strange, lonely life. But he had heard the sirens a block away, and even before he'd arrived, he'd known in some cold, dark place he still had deep inside his chest, that he was too, too late.

As the warm, rich fruit-scent wafts over them both, filling the space between them, the tray rattles, and he realizes his hands are shaking. He wonders if he'll ever get used to this. Heat from the freshly-baked pies hits him full in the face, and he feels a sudden wetness running down his cheek. Yeah, that's it. The steam stinging his eyes, is all. He takes one tentative step inside and slides the pies onto the cooling rack without ever tearing his gaze from her.

At the sound, she raises her golden head, and looks up at him with a shy, curious smile. "Why'd you do it, anyway? Why'd you bring me back?"

He shrugs. "I'm the Piemaker. I make pies…and wake the dead."

"So you keep insistin'. But…there were so many. So many others…who didn't make it. Why _me_?"

He just stares at her, unable to put feelings of such depth into words. "I'unno."

"Don't ' _I'unno_ '," she teases. "Why'd you do it?"

He looks away, throat suddenly dry. He hadn't thought this far in advance, hadn't thought how he might explain it all. How can he tell her how it was for him, to see her lifeless form on the ground? How it was to see her, in all her innate goodness, lay herself down selflessly for that young boy, a complete stranger? How can he tell her that, to see her lifeblood spill onto the hard, unfeeling pavement was to witness his own life end? How can he tell her that the sun itself had set that day, never to rise again? Not unless…not unless he'd _done somethin'_.

Beth Greene had always dared him to do things.

And so he'd done it.

Upon arriving at the horrific scene, his one and only aim had been to find her before she could be taken away to some cold, lonely morgue. Forever out of his reach. So he'd shouldered his way in through the crowd and picked her up gently, keeping her close to his chest, careful with his hands, careful to avoid touching any part of her skin. He'd walked through the city streets holding her thus, uncaring who might bear witness to such a macabre sight. Uncaring if the congealing blood from her mortal wound smeared into his apron, as though it were nothing but cherry pie filling.

The Piemaker carried her all the way back, back to the safest place he knew. The place that had become for him—and perhaps, he'd fancied, for her too—home. _"Pies are home. People always want to come home,"_ she'd told him once. He'd always remembered that, had even ended up using it on some of his menus.

As he'd stopped beneath the neon, blinking angel wing-shaped sign, _Mr. Dixon's Heavenly Pies _,__ he tried not to think about how he'd once carried her through the self-same door, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her warm breath tickling his neck as she shrieked and giggled.

Once inside, he'd held her limp form just a moment longer, breathing her in. Savoring the last time he'd ever be able to do this. Then, he'd lowered his mouth to her forehead, and let his lips linger there on her soft skin, part of him wishing, hoping, he'd just die right then and there along with her. But then his minute was up, his moment was over, and he swiftly, gently set her down.

He'd stood back, and waited. He waited for a long time. Long enough to make him wonder if it had even worked. Maybe, just this once, his gift had abandoned him.

But then her eyes had blinked open, destroying and restoring his world all at once.

Those eyes are watching him closely now—those wide, blue eyes no longer clouded over, but alive and bright. In that moment he wants to tell her everything. _I woke you, 'cause you're the light at the end of the goddamn tunnel. 'Cause I can't take another day gone by without seein' your face. 'Cause, I couldn't let you become just another dead girl. Because, Jesus Christ, Beth, you're my heart, my beatin' heart…_

Of course, he can't tell her any that, especially not now. But he can't lie to her, either. So he takes a deep breath and swallows, hard. "There just… ain't enough good people in this world."

Her smile widens, lighting up the dim shop interior, brighter than opening the curtains, threatening to blind him. "So, you _do_ think there are still good people around."

 _I do now_ , he thinks, but does not speak. He can't seem rip his gaze from hers. Every fiber of his being wants to rush to her side, to take her hand in his, to gather her into his arms, to show her once more with his body what he cannot express with his words.

But he can't. Not now.

Not ever again.

With immense effort, he balls his hands into fists, and stands his ground. Maybe he's even more fucking nuts than he thought for doing this. How the hell is he ever going to get through every day of the rest of his life with her so close…but never close enough? But then he thinks of trying to make it through each and every day with her and all of her sun-bright hope buried forever, six feet under and pushing daisies, and he knows that of the two options, there was only ever one, inexorable choice.

She's still watching him, waiting for his answer. Perhaps she sees something of it in his eyes, for she stands up now, and makes her way toward where he's standing stock still. She reaches out for him, reaches out with her hand to touch his arm, to soothe him like she had so many times before, and he almost lets her. But then, at the last minute, he steps back.

"What…what is it?" she asks.

He takes another deep breath. _Lord give me strength._ "I can't. Not again. Not now that I've…" he trails off, unable to say it out-loud, after all.

"Oh," she breathes, as realization washes over her. " _Oh_."

Perhaps she's remembering how they'd picked strawberries together on her daddy's farm that summer day. That day he'd left the city far behind him to go for a country ride on his bike, intending just to pick up some supplies, but finding something else entirely. Perhaps she's remembering how he'd placed each berry, one by one, right into her waiting mouth, so he wouldn't have to touch them again, wouldn't have to watch them wither and turn gray right there in his hands.

Finally, Beth lowers her hand, and looks at it once more. And in her eyes, the wonder is now replaced with sadness.

At her crestfallen expression, Daryl's heart breaks all over again. _What have I done?_ He clears his throat, tries to explain the unexplainable. "That's just…how it works. Ain't nothin' worth havin'—nothin' worth _savin',_ " he corrects himself, "that don't come without a price."

"So, we can't touch. At all."

He can only nod, solemnly.

"I can't even hug you?" she asks.

He just shakes his head. Right now wishes he could disappear, wishes that the ground would just gobble him up, swallow him down, down to the last crumb.

She cocks her head slightly, frowning. "But what if you need a hug? A hug can really turn your day around." She takes a tentative step forward.

"Don't!" The word leaves his throat as a growl, far harsher than he'd intended. "Just…don't do it, Beth," he pleads, more gently. "I'll be alright."

Beth doesn't move any closer, but just looks up at him through her eyelashes, and, after a long moment, sighs. "Well, if that's how it's gotta be…"

She turns away for minute, and he's about to reply, some empty reassurance about how everything will be okay, they'll make it work… but before he can blink she's got the pie-server in her hand and she's pointing it at him. "Beth, what—"

"Shhh," she soothes, and she lifts the utensil up to his face, traces the ridge of his cheekbone slowly, smiling up at him all the while.

His heart pounds in his chest and he remains utterly still, unable to breathe. He lets her slide the cold, metallic server slide against his face, around his ear. Its serrated teeth trail down his neck, and now he's shuddering uncontrollably. But she doesn't stop there—now she moves, stepping around him, circling him, tracing his whole body with it like she's some kind of shark and he's her catch of the day.

Beth keeps hold of his gaze all the while, and his skin feels like it's caught ablaze, like that night they'd gone camping in the woods and trashed a golf course while drinking too much moonshine. That night he'd spilled his guts to her about his drug-dealer brother and his alcoholic daddy. The night he told her about his scars, and let it slip how before he'd put his gift to use and become the Piemaker, he'd drifted through life as _nobody, nothing_.

That night he'd been convinced that she'd be disgusted by his revelation. That she'd leave him, even. But she'd simply pushed up her bracelets, shown him the thin, white line across her wrist, and amidst the tears that had flowed from them both, there had been smiles. For that night, they had found something in each other. Something kinda like home.

Later, they'd set fire to an abandoned cabin. " _We should burn it down,_ " she'd giggled up at him.

She's not laughing now, just giving him defiant, wicked grin as she circles him, and he nearly falls to his knees before her, nearly collapses right there behind the counter in his empty pie shop.

But then it's over, she's finished, standing back from him once more, and Daryl could weep for the gaping space now between them.

"Well," she says, setting the server back down on the countertop. "Now that I've hugged you, we better get to work. Shop opens in ten minutes. Can't keep our customers waitin', can we, Mr. Dixon?"

As Beth turns from him to don her apron, embroidered with his angel wings logo, he just stands there, heart hammering in his chest, loud enough to wake the dead.

He looks down at his hands, and wonders if there's any man alive as blessed—and as cursed—as the Piemaker.

…

The next few days are astounding and difficult, beautiful and sad, and some of the longest and most torturous of his life.

But still, he tells himself, better that she is here, than...not.

He moves her into his apartment above the shop. He'd always intended to ask her to live with him, but somehow, he'd always lost the nerve at the last moment.

He'd meant to ask her a lot of things.

(To stay with him forever. To be his wife. )

And so it is not without regret that he watches her making herself at home in the little kitchen, in the living room. _Not like this,_ he can't help but think.

Not when it is, for all intents and purposes, too late.

When evening falls, he shows her to her bed in the guest room—for it's best they sleep as far apart as possible, he tells himself—the forlorn look on her face almost makes him forget everything and take her right into his arms.

She shuts the door with a nod and the barest hint of a smile. He waits, like a lost puppy, outside her door for a moment. He waits, and listens, and thinks he hears something, but if she's crying or just writing in that damn diary of hers, he can't tell.

He leaves her to herself for a while.

Sitting alone by the window, opened just a crack, he smokes a cigarette and looks out over the busy street below. He watches the city lights glow brighter, and brighter as the daylight fades into night. He thinks of Beth, alone that room, and for the first time he realizes how hard this must be for her, too. Hot shame shoots through him then, along with a sharp stab of guilt at what he's done. What had he brought her back for, if not for himself? And yet, of course, he cannot have her, not like that.

Not anymore.

For a long time he sits in self-doubt and torment, wondering if all he has accomplished is to bring her back to face some kind of purgatorial inferno alongside him. Perhaps all he's done is doom them both to nothing more than a lonely, half-life.

Finally, he puts out his cig, gets up and goes to the coat rack by the door. There, underneath his leather jacket, he finds his vest. The one with the wings. The one he'd had since back in the days when he'd followed his big brother around like a lost puppy dog. The one he used to wear he'd take her out her for rides. Her arms would snake around his waist and he'd be unable to help himself—his chest would puff out with pride at having snagged himself the prettiest girl in the county.

The prettiest girl in the whole goddamn world.

He'd worn it that day, when she'd left her daddy's farm, hopped on his bike and headed for the big city, to work for a redneck-turned-entrepreneur.

Daryl strides across the room, purposeful, vest in hand. Here was something he could do. He goes to her door, knocks, and waits. And then she's peeking out from around the other side, and he realizes she's already ready for bed, and wearing, well…wearing not much of anything at all, save for a pair of panties and a tiny tank-top that might as well be see-through.

He mutters something unintelligible, and sheepishly hands her the vest, which she accepts, carefully, and then clutches it to her chest. He watches her for a moment, watches as she buries her face into it. Finally, she looks up at him again. Tears well in her eyes, and, he realizes, in his own.

He's about to turn on his heel, and run the hell away before he does something stupid, when he hears her voice, just a tiny thread in the darkness. "Thank you," she says.

Looking anywhere but her, he shuffles his feet. "Ain't nothin'."

"No, I mean…thanks for bringin' me back."

Daryl's heart skips a beat, and he swallows, and gives her the barest of nods, and then flees to the shadows of his bedroom.

Lying in his bed, he feels the gulf now between them more keenly than ever. He remembers a time when she'd stay the night, and be there beside him, warm and alive, and snuggled into his chest. Now that he's by himself, he can't stop the hot tears that fall silently down his face. He places his hand against the cool plaster of the wall and imagines her wrapped in his vest, sleeping just on the other side, alone.

…

Down in the shop, things are, if not easier, then at least a little less fraught, and so they spend most of their time there. There are certain moments, when the shop is busy enough, when it almost passes for being just like _before_. Almost.

Daryl tells himself it's enough. Enough to be in the kitchen, rolling one of his special gruyere-infused pie crusts, and to know that she's out there, greeting the customers as always, keeping them happy, keeping the place shiny and bright.

He tells himself it's enough to hear her humming to herself while she works. Enough to take her a slice of her favorite strawberry pie when it's time for her break. Enough when, in the mornings, she carefully slides him, from across the counter, a cup of black coffee, piping hot, just how he likes it. He takes it back to the kitchen with him and imagines the warmth emanating from the mug into the pads of his fingers to be her body heat melting into his own.

Late one night, he comes upstairs long after he expects her to be in bed. And so he nearly has a heart attack when she sidles up to him in his dark living room, like a cat slinking out of the shadows. "Jesus, Beth," he says, moving a pace away from her, "I could've—"

"Could've what? _Touched_ me?" she says, and there is more than a little trace of sarcasm in her voice.

"Beth, you know I don't mean—you know I want—"

"I know what you want, Mr. Dixon," she whispers, and there is something in her voice that makes him shiver, and not with cold. "I can give it to you, if you'd just let me."

He realizes she's circling him again, like she had down in the shop. The hunter he once was suddenly recognizes this for what is: a snare, a well-laid trap. _She's been waitin' up all night for me._ "Beth, don't—"

"Don't _what_?" she asks, with growing impatience.

"Don't come near me," he says, but his voice wavers and cracks like a young boy's. "I could kill you," he adds in a strangled whisper.

Beth just stares at him. "That's bullshit!" she says, stamping her foot. "It's like, ever since…" she trails off for a moment. "You don't get to treat me like crap just because you're... _afraid!_ " she's practically shouting the last word in his face. In the glare of light from the streetlamp outside, Daryl is shocked to see the wounded look in her eyes. She lowers her head, just slightly. "I know you look at me and you just see a dead girl."

He is rendered speechless by her pronouncement. She's right, he realizes, and hangs his head in shame. He _is_ afraid.

She sighs, and he can tell she's got a hand on her hip just from the tone of her voice. "You might've given me my life back, Daryl Dixon, but it's still _my_ life. And I'll do what I damn well want with it."

In that moment, he's more than afraid, he's terrified. He's scared shitless that she's about to do something that will make him lose her all over again. But he knows she is right (she is always right) and so he says nothing, and just takes a slow, deep breath.

Beth Greene is standing right in front of him again, and he can barely see anything but the top of her pale head, but he can feel her breath on him, for the first time since…well, for the first time since she died. "Do you trust me?" she whispers.

Daryl hesitates, not because he's unsure, but because he realizes that he does. "Yeah," he whispers back.

"Then hold up your arms," she commands.

He obeys, and raises his arms, which in that moment feel like leaden weights, and squeezes his eyes shut. He knows he's being a fucking coward, but if she's going to leave him again, he doesn't want to witness the moment it happens. Once was more than enough.

Instead, he feels her deftly slide his leather vest over each of his arms and onto his shoulders, as though she were dressing a child—and all without touching an inch of his skin. "Now," she says, "keep 'em raised, like that. Good."

And then, just like that, she closes the gap between them. An agonized moment passes before he realizes: she's hugging him, holding him tight, her arms wrapped around his waist, her hands resting lightly against his back, her head nestled against his chest. "I want to _live_ , Daryl," she whispers, right into his heart.

He cannot speak in reply, but just keeps his arms raised high, keeps himself still as a statue, despite the powerful instinct to wrap them around her. He inhales her scent, and as he does, tears once more track down his cheeks. He couldn't stop them even if he wished and they fall, one by one, into her hair. She sighs, and snuggles closer. He can almost feel her through the leather. Just barely, but it's like heaven on earth for him in the moments that it lasts.

She remains there, resting against him for some time, long enough to worry him a little, but not nearly long enough for him, all the same.

When she finally releases him, she's still alive. Still breathing.

"Oh God, Beth," he rasps softly. "Thank God."

She looks up at him, with a little smile. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

He can only look down on her, and marvel at how the city lights filter through the window and shine in her eyes— reflections of her inner spark that still glows bright.

So very bright.

…

Days pass, and nights too, but Beth does not try to hug him again. Perhaps, that one embrace was all she needed, just to know she really was still alive.

He tries not to let it get to him, 'cause honestly he has no idea what is bothering him more—that she did it at all, or that she hasn't done it again.

It's becoming harder and harder for him to be in physical proximity to her, even in the shop, and perhaps she knows. Perhaps that's why she hasn't pushed anything else since.

One morning, he's down in the kitchen already, in the midst of rolling the crusts for the day, up to his elbows in flour, when he reaches over for a knife and stabs it into the pie-dough like it's someone's heart. And then he slams his fist into the table beside it, sending flour everywhere.

When the cloud of white dust dissipates, Daryl knows he needs to get out, knows he's gonna go completely crazy if he doesn't.

So he puts the pies on a timer, leaves a note for Beth and for Glenn, the assistant baker on duty. Then he dusts off his hands and takes off his apron. He shrugs himself into his leather jacket, hops on his bike, and hits the roads just outside of town.

It's too goddamn cold for motorcycle rides, but it's the cold he seeks. He rides until he reaches the foothills of the low mountains, where the woods are dense and some of the leaves have already turned brown, and withered and fallen. The hand of Nature at work, so like his own.

He's going a lot faster than he should, especially around such treacherous mountain passes, but for some reason he can't seem to give a shit. He knows it's hypocritical of him to be so uncaring of his own safety, of even his life in this moment, but he can't help it.

He both dreads and longs to crash. _Maybe if I die, we'll both be free_ , he thinks wildly.

Or maybe, he'll just join his dad and his brother in some kind of eternal damnation.

As he leans into a particularly sharp turn, the crisp, chill autumn air blasts into the crags of his weather-beaten face, cools the hot surging of his blood and calms the lightning-storms raging in his mind.

He arrives at a scenic lookout with little picnic tables, and that's where he finally stops. He hops off his bike, kicks down the side stand, and strides over to the railing. There, gazing out over the morning haze that has settled above the city, he lights up, intending to smoke a cigarette or two, to try to clear his near-crazed thoughts.

But as he takes a few drags, along with the tendrils that rise with his breath in the cold air, memory swirls. Memories of her, and memories of _before_.

He'd been young the first time it had happened. Six, maybe seven, out on one of many, endless hunting trips with his father. The elder Dixon had taken down a buck, a big 'un, an eight-pointer. They'd tracked it to where it had fallen, down by the river at the edge of their property. His daddy had been showing him how and where to make the first incision, but he'd been so nervous, trying to impress his un-impressible father, and his boy-hand had slipped so that he'd touched the creature's flank. Like a shot, it was up again, attempting to run away. But his father had always been devilishly quick with his compound bow, and had taken it down again before it got more than a few yards away.

That night, Daryl could have sworn his father's fist had been angrier than ever. Could've sworn the belt buckle had struck harder, deeper. Could've sworn the sting had been sharper than ever before.

That was the night Daryl Dixon had learned he was different.

That was the night he'd learned he would have to be careful.

At first, he'd experimented with the squirrels he would hunt on his own in the woods behind the trailer. The first few had scampered away before he'd had the chance to touch them again, and so it had taken some time before he had learned the true nature and full extent of his strange powers. But once he had ascertained the way of it, he'd taken extra caution with his prey, touching each limp body twice in swift succession, to end things as quickly and humanely as possible.

With squirrels and rabbits and other small creatures, it was easier. Easier to justify touching them twice. He'd had to eat, after all. But later, as a teenager, he'd been out with Merle, driving down a country lane on the outskirts of town. The music had been blaring, and his older brother had been racing down the road like a lunatic as usual, when something had darted out in front them, colliding with the screeching tires with heart-piercing whimper. Merle had insisted his baby brother go out and check. Scrape it out from underneath, if necessary.

And so it had been Daryl who had found the dog.

And in that moment, he could not help himself. Merle couldn't see, not from the driver's seat. And so he had reached down and touched the creature's blood-stained fur, and woken it from what would have otherwise been an eternal sleep.

In the end, however, the old hound had whined pitifully and tried follow him back into the car, and he'd had to chase the poor thing away with a stick. Merle had shouted at him the whole way home, saying why didn't he just shoot the the damn dog in the head. Daryl had just shrugged, and his brother had clapped him upside his ear and called him a fucking pansy, amongst several other choice phrases.

After that day, he'd been even more wary. He'd limited his contact with the dead to the strictly necessary. The small, furred critters he'd hunted for sustenance. And later, after moving to the city, he'd limited it further, touching only the most innocuous things like the berries and fruit picked for his pies.

That is, until the incident. Until Beth Greene had been taken from him. Until her light, and her fire, had been snuffed out from this life.

He leans into the cold metal of the railing, and exhales another breath of smoke into the air, and ponders the last few weeks. The last few years. And further back, to that night they'd burned that place down. When she'd shown him the thin, white line on her wrist. When she'd revealed to him that, ever since the moment the edge of the glass had touched her skin, she'd known she'd never want to end her life again. That she'd wanted to live.

And live she had. She'd lived each and every moment that he'd known her to the fullest.

Hell, she'd even taught him to do so as well.

That is, until the incident. Until he'd traded all the pleasures of life in a single instant, just to see her breathe one more breath, just to see her eyes shine, one more time.

He wonders if he should have just kept his hands and lips to himself. If he should have learned his lesson long ago.

But Beth is no deer, to be hunted down and then mercifully set free. And she's definitely no puppy-dog, following him around blindly. She's a girl. No, a _woman_. A human woman, with a mind and will of her own. And she had chosen to stay with him, regardless of the difficulty they now faced. Defiant as ever in the face it of it.

That's when he realizes: he doesn't give a damn about a scenic overlook if she's not there to share it with him. Beth Greene is alive and well, and working hard for _him_ back at his infernal pie shop, and what has he just done?

He's just up and left her, miles behind.

The unfinished cig hits the pavement at his feet; the heel of his boot grinds it into the ground. He turns away from the railing and, without another moment's hesitation, hops back on his bike and turns it around.

…

It's still early when he returns. He parks the Charger out on the street, and approaches the shop.

Outside, the breakfast crowd is already spilling out the door, braving the cold to line up for spiced lattes and a slice. He goes around the back, and once inside, the combination of familiar smells and enveloping warmth evoke in him a mixture of nostalgia and longing.

The Piemaker is eager to make sure all is well in his shop (and with his girl), and he doesn't even stop to take off his leather jacket. He goes to the kitchen first to check the ovens, and gives a stressed-out Glenn a little nod of silent thanks.

He's about to check on things inside the shop itself when he sees a ceramic mug sitting beside the knife-pierced dough-ball he'd left on the countertop. Immediately he reaches it for it, knowing full well whose hand had placed it there for him. But the carefully-prepared coffee has grown cold, and he feels a surge of guilt for not being back sooner.

He's about to turn and walk back out the door, when a little piece of paper slides out from underneath the mug. It reads, simply: _For You._ Beneath, there's a smiley face and a heart. Daryl's throat tightens, and he holds the tiny note to his chest like he would embrace a living being, and then he slips it into his pocket.

Taking a deep breath, he finally steps out of the kitchen and into the shop.

Chatting customers fill up the booths and bar stools alike, and there's music, long-dead voices crooning, drifting in and out of the background. Out of instinct he scans the room, noticing a couple regulars as well as a strangely large number of newcomers. Despite himself, Daryl searches for her amidst the hordes, and there she is—he can just make out the wispy, white-gold top of her head behind the sea of bodies, seeking food, seeking warmth.

Out of his Piemaker apron, the customers don't recognize him right away and he makes the most of the moment. He slinks, unnoticed, to stand just outside the kitchen, under the emergency exit sign above back door. He's got a better view from here, and he steals a glimpse of her. She's bending over slightly, searching for something in one of the cupboards, and he tries and fails not to notice how the apron she's wearing clings to her slim hips, tries not to remember how those hips had once felt beneath his hands, as she rose and fell against him.

He tries and fails not to remember how he used to make her sigh and moan and call out his name, sometimes right there in that very spot, against the cold, hard surface of the countertop. Those nights, after the crowds had gone, her soft cries would echo through the empty shop, barely audible over the hum of the dishwashers and refrigerators.

Afterward, they'd share a late-night coffee, sitting in one of the booths like they were on a date. He'd light a cigarette, breaking his own rules. She'd steal a coin from the cash register and slot it into the vintage jukebox in the far corner of the room. And then she would sing along, karaoke-style, with whatever old tune she'd chosen, for an audience of one.

She'd sing just for him, until he could take it no longer. Until the sweet music of her voice and the gentle swaying of her hips drew him to where she stood. She'd tremble, slightly, at his approach; he'd growl deep in his throat. Then he'd lift up her skirt, push her panties roughly aside, and take her right there, right up against the goddamn thing.

Daryl curses himself once more for holding onto such memories, such impossible desires, but he still can't keep his eyes from her. Can't keep his eyes from her graceful form as she moves around behind the counter with ease and familiarity—as she should, having ample experience working for him by now. She both takes orders and calls them out to the kitchen with an authority that he'd not realized she possessed until now. _Like she owns the damn place,_ he thinks with a rueful smirk. And she may as well. For she shines brighter than any neon sign, lighting up the whole inside of the room with her smile, with her very being.

He knows this place just wouldn't be the same, wouldn't be _home_ , without her. There sure as hell weren't enough good people in this world, but at least there was one in his little corner of it.

At least there was one in his life.

And so, even after everything, Daryl feels assured that he made the right choice. Did the right thing.

It's cold comfort, but comfort all the same.

He watches her for longer than he'd intended. Watches as she greets every customer like each one is the most important person in the world, watches as sometimes her hand brushes against someone else's, and even though it's the most normal, natural thing in the world, even though he loves her for it, he can't help his growing dismay. Can't help the lump lodging itself in his throat.

It's then that he notices something that he, so usually observant, probably should have noticed sooner—and that is that the crowd of people lined up out the door is unusually large, even for a busy weekday morning. And then he realizes that each person in the line seems to be craning their head to get a glimpse of something of interest behind the counter. At first he just assumes it's the menu or the daily special (his shop is pretty famous, after all), but he decides to move in for a closer look.

That's when he overhears it, just a snippet of conversation:

"—got caught in that crossfire downtown, that's what I heard—"

"I heard she was dead on arrival—"

"Nah, she never even made it, man. Heard tell she just got up and walked away—"

The words trail off and are lost amongst the chatter, but they are enough. Enough to make the primal, life-and-death side of the Piemaker raise his hackles immediately. He uses his broad shoulders to clear a path, and then he's right there at the edge of the line, standing next to a dark-haired young man he's never seen in his shop until that very moment.

Daryl looks over at the fellow and he tries to keep his gaze and tone casual. "What's with the big line, today?" He thinks he can guess the answer before he even asks the question, but he has to be sure.

The guy looks over at him with incredulity, like he's some kind of simpleton. "Oh, dude, we're all here to see the dead girl." He leans in, and raises a hand to his mouth, as though to speak conspiratorially to Daryl. "Heard she's smokin' hot, too. You know, for a zombie chick."

Every muscle, every sinew in Daryl's body tightens at that moment, and he feels his heart turn cold and hard as stone. Were people really saying this, after everything he and Beth had been through—everything they were still going through?

Beth— _his_ Beth—had laid her life down defending a stranger she barely knew; Daryl had brought her back, and in the process had damn-near killed himself.

The thought that someone, anyone, was trying to cheapen this, turn it into some sick joke, turn him and her and their shop into some kind of side-show, well…it's enough to make his blood boil. Enough to make him want to smash the kid's smarmy grin right off his face. _So much for a cold mornin' ride to cool my thoughts…_

(In that moment, he's suddenly glad he'd left that knife back there in the kitchen. It scares him a little; he's not been this angry in a long, long time.)

And so, he can't help that his fists begin to clench and unclench, like they have a life of their own. Can't help that he takes a menacing step forward.

(He hasn't been in a fight in years, and maybe, after everything, he's just itching for one.)

But he knows he can't beat up a customer in his own shop, and for a moment he has no idea how to proceed. Finally, he steels himself. "What did you call her?" he asks in a low, rasping growl.

The kid looks taken aback for a split second, but his smile is quick to return. "What, 'zombie chick'?"

"Nah." Daryl just stares at him. "Before that."

The fellow laughs nervously now. "Oh, come on, I didn't mean—"

He moves another step forward so he's right in the guy's face. "What. Did. You. Call. Her?"

He's not smiling anymore. "Uh, d-dead girl?"

Daryl remains inches away from the young man, who is now starting to sweat visibly. "That's what I thought." He knows his voice has gone eerily calm.

People are staring now. Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl can see a couple of the regulars start to stand up. But he keeps his eye on the kid, whose eyes dart around the room, like he's looking for an escape.

"That's right," Daryl says, "you just keep lookin' for that exit."

"Dude, what the fuck?" he says, inching away from Daryl. "What's it to you anyway?"

Without even thinking, he just comes right out with it. "She's my wife."

(Sure, it's not technically true, but it _should_ be, and he doesn't regret the embellishment for one moment.)

The young man's mouth opens and closes several times. He looks like a goldfish, and Daryl wants to burst out laughing, but he's trying to scare the shit out of him, so he keeps a straight face.

There's a palpable tension in the air now, so thick he could slice it like one of his pies, and he's about to speak again when he feels a strong hand clasp his shoulder. "This fellow causin' you trouble, Piemaker?"

It's the deputy sheriff, Rick Grimes, one of his most loyal customers. Been with him since the beginning. And even though he's off duty—he's here with Lori and the kids, after all—the man carries an unmistakable air of authority about him all the same.

(And, no doubt, Daryl thinks, his hand-cuffs.)

" _Shit,_ " the kid swears, realizing too late what he's got himself into.

"It's the _Piemaker_ ," people start whispering behind their hands.

"Best do as the man says, boy," Sheriff Grimes chimes in.

"It's alright, Rick," Daryl says. "I got this."

Even more people are staring now, and the young man looks like he's about to cry. "Hey man, I'm sorry, I didn't know-I didn't mean—"

"If you know what's best for you, you'll leave right now. 'fore I throw you out with the rest of the trash."

Looking like he really is about to shit himself, the fellow backs away a few more steps through the sea of customers and nearly trips over himself in his haste to turn and run for the door.

In that moment, Daryl almost feels sorry for him.

Almost.

Once the glass door closes behind him, everyone's gaze turns to Daryl. He doesn't waste a moment. "Anyone else?" he barks.

There is nothing but silence; no one makes a peep. He looks around the shop, knowing his face is like thunder but he does not care. "Any of you here to look at a 'dead girl'," he shouts loudly, so the whole shop can hear, "'best leave now. This here's a pie shop, not a morgue. Ain't no dead girls here. Just my wife. And she's alive, goddamnit. _Alive!_ "

The shop is suddenly a-buzz with whispers and muttering, and a few disgruntled-looking old ladies sitting near the door leave in a huff. But, Daryl notes with surprise, almost everyone else remains.

He inclines his head to Sheriff Grimes, who nods back—he knows Rick'll back him up if things get out of control, but he doesn't think it will come to that. He raises his hands trying to quieten down the crowd. "If, however," he begins loudly, "you're here for the best goddamn pies in the city, then you've come to the right place."

That ought to have shut everyone's pie-holes, but the buzzing in the shop only grows louder:

"We didn't know you got married!" someone calls out.

"Yeah, Piemaker, give us a kiss!" another shouts.

Soon the whole restaurant is chanting, "Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!" and banging their cutlery together, like it's a goddamn wedding. Daryl is close to panicking. _What the fuck was I thinkin'?_

And then he's being patted on the back by several other regulars: Ty and Karen are high-fiving each other, Michonne and Andrea are doing a crazy dance at their table, Lori's grinning behind her hands, and Rick claps him on the shoulder with a "Congrats, brother."

Daryl finds himself swept up in the sea of customers, riding on their tidal wave of well-meaning congratulations, until— _oh God_ —he's right there, face-to-face with Beth, who is just on the other side of the counter.

She's blushing fiercely, and he knows he, too, must be beet-red by now—the tips of his ears are fairly burning. He barely has time to wonder just how much of all that she's heard, and he scrambles to explain himself. "Beth, I—shit, I'm sorry," he mutters. "They said you was—I just—I don't know what I was … "

But his apology is drowned out by the relentless chants of "Kiss her, kiss her, Kiss her!" And that's when he realizes: Beth's cheeks may be flushed, but she's grinning from ear to ear. Grinning at _him._

"Why, Mr. Dixon," she says loudly, for all to hear, "I thought you'd never ask."

If Beth's response elicits a deafening cheer, then what she does next brings the whole house down. For, without even skipping a beat, she pulls out a box of Saran Wrap from one of the cupboards underneath the counter, and tears off a great, big sheet of the stuff. She holds it up in front of her face, and leans over the countertop, and before Daryl can even protest, Beth Greene is pressing her lips against his own, with nothing but the thinnest sheet of plastic between them.

And then all he can he feel is the warmth and the softness of her little mouth against his, and he can almost, _almost_ taste the strawberries still on her breath.

There are moments in a man's life that he'll never, ever forget, and this sure as hell is one of them. _Mr. Dixon's Heavenly Pies ain't got nothin' on this,_ is all the thought he can manage.

In the midst of this little slice of heaven, Daryl closes his eyes to savor this memory of her, for part of him still can't believe it won't be his last. But the kiss goes on, and on, and it takes all his willpower not to reach out with his hands. And yet, somehow, their mouths moving against one another like this, kissing without touching, is sexier than anything he's ever experienced with her, even _before_.

Even with—or maybe because of—the audience gathered around them.

Finally, the Piemaker and his girl wrench themselves apart. If there are tears in their eyes, the customers either don't notice, or are kind enough to pretend they don't see.

Daryl takes a deep, shuddering breath—relief, once more, washes over him. Relief that she's still there in front of him. Still standing.

The gathered crowd is still cheering, egging them on, asking for another. When he looks at her, shining like a beacon across from him, he's tempted, for a moment, to oblige and give his customers a second round.

But amidst the applause and the wolf-whistles and the smiles lighting up the sea of faces all around him, all he can do is stand there, beholding her.

"See," Beth says, smiling up at him, "there's still good people, Daryl."

…

After the Saran Wrap Proposal (as it becomes known in pie shop-lore), it's like a sort of fog has been lifted, a weight removed from Daryl's chest.

Down at the shop, business has never been better. The Piemaker has even had to take on a few more workers to handle the relentless flow of customers, clamoring for coffee and pies (and sometimes kisses). And if any of them are still curious about the girl behind the counter, no one is foolish enough to mention it ever again.

Upstairs at home, things are easier than ever between them. While Beth hasn't mentioned his impromptu shop-proposal since that morning, she doesn't need to. They're already falling naturally into something akin to married life. And, Daryl supposes sardonically, plenty of married couples don't sleep in the same bed, after all.

At home, and on days off, they start to get creative. Before bed, Beth takes to dancing around the living room, sometimes fully-dressed, sometimes stark-naked, sometimes in-between. In such moments, Daryl stops thinking about what he can't have, and begins to just…sit back and enjoy the view.

And then there are the quiet, sweet moments, when she sits on the other side of the room and reads books out-loud to him, like he imagines his momma would've done, if she hadn't died when he was so very young. And sometimes, at night, they light little candles all around room and Beth sings softly to him while he's lying with his feet up on the sofa. She sings of summer days gone by, and of _bein' good_ , and Daryl closes his eyes and rests his arm behind his head.

On such nights he more often than not falls asleep like that, and if he still dreams sometimes that she strides over to the sofa and lies down beside him, he no longer hates himself so intensely for it. Because when he wakes in the early morning hours to find Beth snoozing in the armchair on the other side of the room, he is simply relieved that she is not, after all, just a dream.

They teach each other how to play various games—board games, card games, drinking games, everything. Beth even teaches herself to read Tarot, and each time she foretells Daryl a hundred different fates, a thousand different destinies. If each reading usually ends with him as some kind of Knight, defeating Death and freeing a maiden from a Tower, he doesn't complain. For Beth is the only Fortune he needs, and he is just grateful that he has all the time in the world with her on those endless, cold nights.

Once, in the midst of an intense game of chess, Daryl feels Beth's booted foot rubbing up against his pink bunny slippers under the table. Before all this, he'd never have thought playing footsie could make his heart feel like its going to burst out of his chest, and yet make him want to weep himself into the ground all at the same time.

But, if truth be told, in time it is Daryl's joy—and not his heartache—that increases. Because Beth has the bright idea to sew thick leather patches onto several of her sweaters, and now, when she hugs him, he can return it in his way, and hold her lightly by the elbow, just so.

One night, they're sitting on opposite sides of the room, mindlessly watching tv. Daryl's eating the last remnants of grape jelly straight out of the jar with a spoon—an old, bachelor's habit of his—when Beth suddenly blurts: "Daryl, we should get a dog."

"Why?" he asks, through a heaping mouthful.

But Beth just smiles and shrugs like it's no big deal, and the subject shifts to the ridiculous reality show that's on, and Daryl forgets all about it.

A few days later, they're walking side by side (but at arm's-length) through the city park, and an off-leash golden retriever comes bounding up to them, a doggie smile on its face and tongue lolling. Within seconds the dog's on its back getting a belly rub, and Beth is beaming down upon the creature. Daryl swears he can actually see the damn hearts in her eyes.

And that's when he realizes, _why_ , and he feels like a complete and utter fool for not understanding sooner.

The next day, he closes the pie shop early, and surprises Beth with a visit to the local shelter.

He's in there only a minute before there's just too many lonely souls howling, too many crying out for human touch, and he has to wait outside.

"You choose," he tells her as she turns to go back inside. "I trust you."

And so when they leave the place with a pale, scraggly, one-eyed mutt—abused and neglected in a previous life—and Beth declares that his name is 'Moonshine', Daryl doesn't even care that it's the ugliest dog he's ever seen and silliest name he's ever heard…'cause he knows.

He knows what it means.

Back in the park, under a grove of oaks, they play together in a pile of fallen leaves, all three of them. Daryl watches Moonshine's tail wag a mile a minute as the mutt licks Beth just there, on the ear, and he can't help but smile despite himself. And then when the creature finally comes to him of its own accord and gives his ear a giant swipe too, he feels a part of his heart meld back into place, like a not-so spare part that's been missing too long.

…

Months pass. Autumn fades into winter. Winter settles in, makes itself at home.

The world turns. Life goes on.

They fall into a routine: working in the shop, home, dog-walks, and a Saran Wrap kiss here and there. Double dates with the Grimes. Beth's big sister Maggie starts coming into town for more frequent visits, and Daryl will be damned if Glenn hasn't taken a pretty big shine to her.

And so, by the time spring shows up, even though Daryl wasn't the one who'd died all those months ago, he finally feels like he can breathe again. He's got a family. Something he'd never before thought possible for himself.

One warm evening, he's about to close up shop but he can't find Beth anywhere. He sees her apron hung up on its hook by the door, and her purse is missing too. He runs upstairs, but the only one there is Moonshine, who'd been curled up asleep in Beth's favorite armchair. The dog lifts his head and whines—with only one eye he's easily startled. "It's alright, 'Shiny-boy," Daryl soothes.

And then he quickly stomps back down the stairs, trying not to panic.

When he gets outside, he's greeted by a sight that both relieves him and nearly knocks the wind right out of him. It's like something out of movie—or maybe just his wildest dreams.

Because there, on the back of his motorcycle, straddling it like she's riding a goddamn pony, is Beth Greene. She's dressed almost entirely in black leather, from her thigh-high boots, to her riding chaps, to her tight leather jacket. The only splash of color is a red silk scarf wrapped around her throat. Her hair's done up in a high ponytail, rockabilly-style. She's even holding a shiny new helmet against her hip, and she's giving him an impatient look, like she's been waiting there for him for hours.

It's hottest thing he's ever seen.

"What…the—Beth?" he finally sputters.

She giggles, like she's mighty pleased with herself. "Maggie's gonna watch 'Shiny for the night, and she said she'll look after the shop if were not back in time for mornin'. I think she just wants to spend some time with Glenn, if you know what I mean." Her smile widens mischievously. "I even packed us a picnic," she adds, gesturing to the saddlebags.

Daryl's still standing there with his mouth gaping open—this time, he's the goldfish. "You… uh, you thought of everythin', huh?"

"Almost. I'm still missin' one thing, though."

"What's that?"

She laughs. " _You_ , silly. Hop on."

And so, he has no choice but to obey. He doesn't dare ask where the hell she had to go to find that outfit—he just decides to roll with it.

He swings his leg over the seat, and gets on in front of her. He flinches momentarily when she wraps her arms around him from behind. He's just finally steadying himself again when the sensation is followed by her breath tickling against his hair, and he almost falls off his own bike.

"Hey," Beth whispers softly, giving him a squeeze around his middle. "We're alive."

"Hell yeah," he agrees, pulling back on the throttle and revving the engine. "And we might as well make the best of it."

…

Up in the foothills, they pull to a stop at the scenic overlook, high above the city.

Beth's brought a whole strawberry pie—still warm—a thermos full of coffee, and some camping mugs. They take their time, enjoying their feast and the cool evening breeze, smiling shyly at each other across the picnic table.

Every now and then, their leather boots slide against one another under the table, and Daryl closes his eyes and allows himself to just… _enjoy_ the sensation.

Finally, night falls and they stand together at the railing of the overlook, side by side and an arm's length apart, as always. The stars are glittering above and the city is shimmering below, but it is Beth Greene who shines the brightest.

Her eyes are fixed on the far-away skyline, but his are fixed upon her. He drinks in the sight of the wisps of her blond hair floating across her face, and the thin red scarf blowing like a banner in the breeze.

And even though Daryl still remembers a time when he could have reached out and brushed those strands from her face, could have placed his callused hand upon the junction of her ear and neck and pressed his mouth against hers, a time when he could have tasted more than just a memory of fresh strawberries, he doesn't allow it to sink him into despair.

 _"You gotta make room for it,"_ she'd explained to him, one especially long winter's night.

And so he had. He'd carved out entire cities within himself, where his memories—both good and painful and everything in-between—could dwell. And as he did, he realized he'd also built new spaces in his heart and mind, where he could live in the present, live inside each and every moment that he has with her.

Of course it's not enough. He understands that, now. Because—and he knows it in his very bones—he could spend a hundred thousand lifetimes with Beth Greene, and be allowed to touch her every single minute of every day in each one, and still it would not be enough.

It's then that she turns to look at him, and maybe she can see what he's thinking, there in his eyes, for she stretches out her arm and rests her gloved hand upon the railing.

He doesn't need any words; he recognizes the invitation for what it is. Though he keeps his feet rooted to the ground and remains where he stands, he reaches out and inches his fingers along the metal bar, until he places his own hand atop hers. And there, with their hands resting against the cold, hard railing, Daryl can just feel the warmth of her—and perhaps the very beating of her heart—through the soft leather.

At some point, Beth starts humming, and Daryl feels the vibration of her music emanating from inside her, feels it shiver and sing through their joined fingers, feels it deep in his soul.

(He pretends, in that moment, that they're the only two people left on earth.)

And Daryl knows that with a love like this—the sort of love which he'll never have enough, but which _is_ enough—they can face eternity together. In life or death or whatever might lie between.

Together, they're gonna be okay. More than okay, even. They're gonna be _good_.

Fingertips entwined, they remain standing thus long into the night. Two souls beneath a vast, dark night sky.

The Piemaker and his girl, who is still so very much alive.

…

* * *

**** **IMPORTANT REMINDER** ****

 **Please respect my wishes NOT to discuss the show beyond the s5 msf. Thank you!** :)


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